


Our Days are Numbered

by DLZdimension



Category: Original Work
Genre: Detectives, Gambling, Gen, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DLZdimension/pseuds/DLZdimension
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray Courland is a detective, not good, not great, but still manages to get the job done. But even the worst detectives are never truly off the job and when he's faced with the inexplicable murder of a poker player during a high-stakes game he is forced to wear the badge once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Days are Numbered

**Author's Note:**

> Warning - The summary may not be an accurate description of the story. I wrote this some two years ago as an impromptu novelette that my writing teacher had us do. Though she took leave before she could get the chance to grade it and the substitute did not know anything about the stories/where they were to read them.   
> While this story did go through several rereads at the time and a quick check over when I changed it from a novelette to a oneshot it has been untouched since. What I wrote in the summary is what I gather from the memories of my intentions, my memories of what I wrote, and what I gathered from a quick skim.   
> Needless to say I think it sucks. But there is the chance that someone may like it so I will pass it out to the public.   
> These notes are probably longer than the actual fic. XD

**Our Days Are Numbered  
** _\--K.Fortune--_

_**-DaN-** _

He lifted the corner of his cards, checked the suits before nestling them back to the green. With a single, smooth movement Alexander flicked his hair back and allowed his eyes to drift over the room; the pale blues caught the fire light. 

He was surrounded by six other men and woman, each of whom were dressed in dazzling suits and gowns that told of wealth and power. His own suit was equally expensive. It was a black three piece, gold trim lining the edges and unnatural ties held the cuffs together. The entire outfit had been put together from scratch, monitored by the demanding presence of his young niece. 

The others adorned different outfits. A woman to his left wore a bulging gown that was filled with cascading frills the size of palms leaves and a silken purse hung on her arm. This was Ms. De Flour, the unwedded mistress of the De Flour heritage – an astounding business, though Alexander him was not sure of it’s worth. She was also a high-ranking gambler in these sound halls; able to watch her fortunes grow behind the protection of her smug smile. 

Next to Ms. De Flour was her sister, Madame Jacques. She was a woman with a big build and flowing, auburn hair that fell around her waists in ringlets. She was constantly pulling at her curls before looping them around her finger. This was her _strat pe’ti_ , her little game. The _strat pe’ti_ was a method that gamblers used to annoy the other plays and encourage them to make a mistake. 

The other gamblers at the table went by the names of Mr. Macon, a corporate engineer, Monsieur Bisette, a high end clothing designer, and Monsieur Favreau, the vice president of the gambling hall. Each man carried a sense of contempt with his wherever he went; they created a thick atmosphere with the texture of pig slop. Had it not been for the invitation that Alexander had received late last evening, then he would not have considered attending.

The only decent person in the room seemed to by the dealer. He went by Nero Firenze and poverty had shaped his character. Black hair fell into his eyes and the monochrome suit that he wore was creased from the constant wear. There was a small black bow clinging to his collar that twitched from he moved. If poker were not a mind game then Alexander would have spent his hours watching that bow with child-like simple mindedness. 

“Monsieur Alexander, I have not seen you around our society. Why have you suddenly made an appearance in this minute location?” Ms. De Flour purred in a thick French accent, drawing on her pipe before blowing it past the man. 

He responded by waving at the air around him, hoping that he could force the cancerous smoke to pass him by more quickly. He smoked himself, but only on occasion; he didn’t appreciate the sting that the smoke brought to his eyes. 

When it had passed, he blinked slowly and smiled. “No, Madame,” he replied. He own voice had no distinguishable accent and cause most people to assume that he was American – which was one-hundred percent inaccurate. “I spend a lot of time travelling across the continents in search of riches and mystery. It is only on rare occasions that I grace the halls of the wealthy with my presence.” 

She blinked in surprise at his tone. It was obvious that Ms. De Flour had never been spoken to like Alexander had spoken to her. He had spoken with disrespect to her, making it seem like he was better than her. To someone like Ms. De Flour, that was impossible. 

“Mr. Solomon? What will you do?” 

Alexander glanced at the Italian dealer briefly before throwing his cards to him. “I’ll fold. Lady Luck had turned her back on me this round.” The man just nodded and collected Alexander’s scattered cards before turning his attention to the next gambler.

The rounds passed in a haze of smoke and alcohol and Alexander watched his pile of chips with rising unease. The pile had been slowly shrinking since the game had started and he had been helpless to do anything about it. His mind was screaming at him to use his last resort – two wild cards stuffed under his jacket sleeve - by this time. He feared that it may come to that. 

“Will you fold, call, or go all in, Mr. Solomon?” Nero asked, catching the other’s attention with a brief snap of his fingers. This motion was met with a series of huffs and grunts of disapproval; the wealthy did not appreciate being belittled by lower class citizens. 

Alexander did not mind, though. Instead he muttered a quiet “fold” and used the back of his hand to hide a smile. He liked Nero, he liked him very much. 

**-**

Detective Ray Courland rested his head in his palm, fingering the rim of his glass. Bubbles rose to the surface, pushing through the brown, alcoholic liquid. A migraine was pushing at the walls of his subconscious like a rolling pin pushes down bread and every light around him was burning through his skull. The sound of dice being cast to the green surface of gambling tables and of drunken men as they pulled hungrily at the arm of the slots machine filled the air. 

Suddenly an ear-shattering scream pierced the air. It was the scared, bloodcurdling kind that was not common to these halls. It was the kind where a body soon followed. 

The detective burst through the door blocking his path, his drink forgotten and unpaid for. The wood splintered around him as the door gave way under his weight. 

Ray emerged in the poker hall, where tables of green sat below hazy blue lighting. The place was nigh abandoned, the seats devoid of any players or dealers. Despite the emptiness, a shadow of a man seemed to jump out in front of him. He was hunched over like a wounded beast, his hands clutched and tore at his hair and his limbs quivered and shook. At the opposite end of the room stood a cluster of people, each starring in petrified at the sight before them. 

Carefully, he approached the mass, making his steps light on the soft, red carpet. Even through his shoes, the man could feel how damp the flooring felt. 

“Who are you?” 

Ray turned to the voice, his eyes falling on a man with a crisp, pinstriped suit, a little dishevelled from movement, and sleek, black hair. 

“Detective Corland,” he replied as he turned his full attention onto the speaker. “Can you tell me what happened here? Why did I hear a scream?”

The man’s lips turned down in mild disappointment, though the rest of his face remained stoic. “Have a look for yourself,” he whispered. With a wave of his arm, he directed the detectives gaze down to the floor. 

The bile rose in Ray’s throat and he shuffled blindly for a chair, table, anything to brace himself. The sight before him was something he had seen before, but it was something that no man could get used to. 

The sight of mutilated corpses had never sat well with him. 

“C-Can everyone come with me, please?” the detective stuttered. One hand hovered over his chest while opening his other in the direction of the door. Three of the survivors just gave him a blank look; the man in the corner quivering where he stood while the other two stood with their hands clutched together. The last man, the one with raven hair, gave him a stern look.

He happened to be the first to rise. With a smug “whatever you say, detective,” he led the pack toward the door. The lady was the last to reach the door, her speed marred by a considerably nasty limp.

Ray stayed where he was, kneeling beside the bodies to get a closer look. As his weight shifted his shoes made squelching sounds in the blood. The gore seemed to consist of three people, their elegant clothes ripped and stained. The single woman in the pile had her dresses chest ripped open to expose her bosom to the world. Deep gashes marked her joints and a jagged scar marred her neck. These lacerations also seemed to be present on the other two men as well, but their chest were not ripped open like the woman’s had been. It indicated that, when the criminal was attacking they had a very sexually-oriented state of mind.

“Detective?”

Ray turned toward the door to find four pairs of eyes resting on him. The speaker’s accent hinted at Italian and the detective’s eyesight immediately rested on the dealer (his suit had been a dead giveaway). All the others were gathered around him, the woman had her hand rested on the door handle while the others leaned against the dealing table.

“What is it?” he asked?

The Italian man grimaced. “The door won’t open.”

With a small grunt, the detective pushed himself to his feet, stretched his back, and stalked over to the door. “Step aside.” They complied silently and he wrapped his hand around the nob, giving it a sharp twist and tug.

Nothing.

He tried again, harder this time without looking frantic.

To his left, the smug gambler smirked. “What’s the plan now, detective?”

Ray shot the man a venomous look. “You’re going to all take a seat at the far end of the room - away from the bodies. I’m going to ask you some questions to find out what happened here, someone will come and get us out, and, hopefully, I’ll have someone arrested before we leave.”

“What do you mean?!” the woman gasped, pressing her hands to her face.

It took many long years for Ray to be able to suppress rolling his eyes, but he did so effectively before attempting to explain the situation.

One of the survivors beat him to that, though.

“Ms. De Flour, it is really simple really. The crime was committed in this room where there is only one exit, save the windows that are locked twenty-four-seven. No one has left the room since before the crime. That means that the culprit is still in this room and because we are the only ones here besides the detective it must be one of us.”

The woman in question shock her head slowly, her eyes were wide, her pupils small as she collapse to the floor in a heap of fabric and lace. Her shoulders shock softly as she pulled herself in a tight embrace. “I-it can’t be,” she whispered. “There’s no way that any of us could have… No one but you two!”

Her head snapped toward the dealer and gambler, a wicked snarl spreading across her face. “You two lowlifes-“

“Now, now, Ms. There is no need to be uncivil,” Ray interrupted. “Now why don’t we start before we lose our heads?”

He directed the survivors over to the windows where he asked for their names and occupation: Nero Firenze, dealer, Alicia De Flour, business owner, Robert Macon, corporate engineer, and Alexander Solomon, traveler. Ray also asked for the names of the dead, per custom, before taking Ms. De Flour away from the crowd; leaving the three men to their own thoughts. 

Minutes lapsed into hours before the young detective returned, with bags under his eyes the size of mole hills and his jacket resting atop his forearm. Alexander watched as he flopped into a seat and patted down his hair. The man had been gone a long time with Ms. De Flour, and even though he could watch them he had not been able to hear them. But logic had been whispering disturbing thoughts to him after the first ten minutes.

No interrogation should take that long. 

Not only that, but Ms. De Flour had remained behind when the good detective had returned. 

“What happened?” Alexander asked experimentally. 

“The body count just went up one,” the detective replied. By the way he said it Alexander was sure that he had forgotten who he was talking too. “Ms. De Flour just passed away.”

Beside him, Nero reeled, whispering Italian curses under his breath. Alexander, on the other hand, just blinked at the news and flipped a poker chip in his palm; his own little _strat pe’ti_. 

“How?” he asked coolly, looking at the detective from behind dark locks. The other reply with a shrug, swept back his hair, and loosened his tie. 

“She’s blue in the lips and grew very mentally disturbed. I would assume that it was poison but what kind of poison I couldn’t tell you. All I know is that it was very merciful in relation to pain. Beyond a particularly violent heart attack, I didn’t see her having any other physical trauma.” 

Alexander nodded. He didn’t know of any poison that behaved like that but that did not mean that one didn’t exist. The young traveler never pretended to be an expert on much of anything. He simply enjoyed a little mystery in his life.

“Beyond that,” the detective said. “I couldn’t get anything out of her. She was dead set on blaming you and, before her mind began to deteriorate, it was all she could talk about. Do either of you mind relaying the events for me?” His eyes travelled over the men before him, resting with a measure of distain on Alexander, before taking them all in as a whole. 

It was Nero who responded. The Italian seemed to be taking the event almost as well as Alexander himself, but his hands, twisting around his bowtie repetitively, betrayed his state of mind. 

“The lights shut off at the end of the second last play. It was dark and we couldn’t see a thing so I told everyone to remain seated. But Madame Jacques didn’t listen – I awesome because I heard her scream and chairs shuffling. There were several blunt hits and more screaming before the lights came back on again and we saw…” He paused for a second to clear his throat, simultaneously giving his bowtie another reassuring strangle. “Mister Solomon was the only one still in his seat but he had moved back almost a foot and had made himself small. Mister Macon had fallen back in his chair and Madame De Flour was behind her chair. I-it looked like she was trying to claw out her eyes.”

“And you?” Alexander prompted, though he could tell the detective himself. 

“I was standing. But I don’t remember getting up,” Nero responded. “Before you came in,” he continued, looking at the detective, “Mister Solomon and Mister Macon were the only two that moved. Mister Macon had retreated into a corner while Mister Solomon had risen to inspect the bodies. Then he sat back on the table when you came in.”

The detective breathed out slowly, his brow nit as he took in Nero’s tale. “Then…”

“If I may, detective,” Alexander interrupted. A smug smile rooted itself in his face. “Did you consider how Ms. De Flour was afflicted with the poison in the first place? We haven’t specifying whether or not she was eating anything, after all.” 

He grimaced and replied, “I know exactly how she was afflicted.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

The traveler watched a vein throb in the detective’s temple, his smile growing. “No. I don’t care to elaborate. I’m the only one who ne-“

“Don’t be foolish, _detective_. What can we gain from insolence?” echoed a psychotic voice. 

Robert Macon coiled into a small ball, his eyes wide and his smile thin. His gaze darted between the three men before him, lingering on each of them with resounding hunger. Nero twitched under his gaze and Robert smiles grew impossibly longer. “At least _one_ of us knows how it happened after all, right?”

“It isn’t my duty to reveal details about the case to witnesses.” 

Watching as Robert drew a thing scratch down his cheek, Alexander pulled at his shirt collar, loosening it considerably. His own smile had disappeared then moment Mr. Macon’s took form; it was like Robert had stolen it from his face to wear it as his own. 

Robert caught sight of the exposed neck, his eyes flashing dangerously. 

He pounced. 

Ray jumped as Macon flew past him, lithe man ramming him and Nero aside in a desperate attempt to get at Solomon. Frozen, the detective watched as the events flashed in front of him. Macon wrapped his hands around his victim’s throat. The flesh twisted and bunched beneath his fingers and a strangled cry escaped Alexander. Robert’s harsh whispers of ‘die’ and Alexander’s violent gags filled the air.

Courland launched himself at Macon, ripping the engineer off of the man just as Alexander’s eye started to roll back in his head. He slung the man back into a pool table – knocking him unconscious instantly – before kneeling down beside the other. Behind him, Ray heard Nero shuffle between Macon and himself. His was mutely grateful for the added protection.

As Ray’s hand brushed over the blooming bruises on the other’s neck Alexander’s hand caught his wrist.

“I’m fine detective,” he rasped, using his grip on Ray’s wrist to heave himself up. “I’ve taken worse than this. I can assure you of that.” The detective just nodded and pulled both of them to their feet before returning his attention back to Macon.

“Lis-“

“Don’t bother.” Ray’s head snapped back to Alexander. _This man just couldn’t keep his mouth shut._ “Mr. Macon here has been prematurely released from a penitentiary. He doesn’t have the state of mine to listen to your reasoning.”

The detective just nodded, pulled out his handcuffs, and moved around Nero. “If you knew this beforehand why didn’t you say so before?” he asked, slapping the cuffs down on the unconscious man’s wrists.

“Because he never did anything wrong.”

Ray’s head snapped left, his gaze falling on the gambler with distaste. “Are you saying that he’s not the murderer?” Alexander’s sarcastic clapping filled the air and Ray could feel a cold gaze on him – that wasn’t Mr. Solomon’s.

The detective turned slowly toward Nero. The young dealer quickly morphed his face into surprise, nervously glancing back and forth between Alexander and himself.

But it was too late to amend his mistake. Ray had seen the venom in his eyes.

“Will you come quietly, Mr. Firenze?” 

The Italian flinched, snarled, and lunged, his hate was almost palpable. A silver flash later and Nero had a knife in his hand and was dragging it upward toward Ray’s chest. The pointed tip snagged a button before the detective could dodge away and bring a rapid left hook to the side of Nero’s head. 

His hand collided with the other’s jaw in a heavy thud. The bone pushed left and Nero grunted. Collapsing to the ground before bouncing back up, retreating to the windows. 

Before Courland could blink, the man had lifted a chair and drove it through the window. Glass splintered and shattered outward and tiny diamond shards flew through the air, a shadow followed soon behind as Nero leaped into the evening light. 

“God damn it!” The man’s fist shattered into the table. The detective was all too aware of Alexander’s eyes on him, but he didn’t seem to care. Rather, he opted to directing his rage in a new direction; all professionalism had, apparently, long since flown out the window. 

“Why the hell didn’t you _stop_ him?” Ray barked. Alexander just shrugged and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. 

“It wasn’t my job, detective.” 

A vain throbbed in the base of said detective’s temple. “Fine. Just remember something, Mr. Solomon.” The black hair man perked up. “Today is the day that you let a mass murderer get away. Were this a smaller city we would be able to catch him easily, but as a detective – and you, as a citizen – should be well aware of what a task this will me. You are an intelligent man and you should know what to expect. 

“Watch the newspapers, Mr. Solomon,” he warned, hunching his back against some unfelt cold. “I promise you that there will be blood.”

With that said, the detective lurched toward the exit. As the man advanced on them, the doors swung open to reveal several baffled casino staff and a hoard of tense officers. 

Then he was gone. 

Alexander finally allowed himself to breath in a wheezy breath. Tenderly, he plucked his hand from his pocket to examine it. A long laceration decorated the skin, oozing blood like a snail oozed slim. He buried his palm again with a wince as policemen swarmed in through the doors. Quickly, he made his own way to the exit, assured that the detective’s sense of justice would declare him innocent.

“There already has been blood, Mr. Detective. You just are not aware of it yet.” 


End file.
